Bestiary

The cultural association between bat and vampire stretches back as far as folklore itself. Some claim to have seen the deathly cold visage of a Vampire Lord striding within the swirling maelstrom of these nocturnal nasties, but those people just wanted attention. They’re bats, and nothing more.

Foul ichor seems to ooze from every pore of this creature’s slick skin, leading many to believe that it bathes in the blood of the freshly slain. Closer study reveals their fur is simply red, however. They’re bats, and nothing more.

Sorcerous experimentation sought to discover if a skeleton, once rendered animate, could toil more efficiently were its head and body split into two separate entities. The answer is no. Of course not. These former farmers, unable to lift the rakes and hoes they so loved, can now only gnash their teeth in eternally silent frustration.

Skullinos that longed to be red in the misguided belief they would float faster. Lacking hands of their own, Skulorosso grip brushes between their teeth and paint each other. The last one holding the brush is usually abandoned, and returns to the ranks of the Skullino with a little less faith in the world.

Bones made of blood. Or blood made of bones. There’s blood involved somewhere. These rufescent ruffians are out to spill even more of it.

What army of darkness would be complete without skeletons? They are highly disciplined, incredibly vengeful, and very unionized!

“Why simply work the smallfolk to death? Work them beyond it!” This, the Cardinal’s necromancers laughed as they turned to the grave for a cheap alternative to labor that needed rest and food. Sadly for them, while their new workforce slept not, feeding was a whole other matter.

The Mudmen of the Mad Forest were once ordinary villagers, but cultural disagreements over whether it was acceptable to cover one’s self in mud and beat passing heroes to death led them to found their own society - a society where it’s acceptable to cover one’s self in mud and beat passing heroes to death.

Said to have first sprouted during a total eclipse of the sun, these blighted blooms appear when they are least needed, which is to say they appear all the time.

Gem bones, gem bones, gem dry bones! The Experience Gem it’s fused with grants enhanced tactical instinct and strategic knowledge. It’s smart enough to briefly consider its options before running directly at Survivors.

A pure fabrication, the idle fantasy of brains gripped with fever or boredom. There’s simply no such thing as ghosts, and the mere suggestion is to be mocked as ridiculous. These particular apparitions are probably just a trick of the light. Tricks of the light can have hit points too!

Said to have evolved from verminous creatures that flocked from a world trapped in time. Their lupine nature has been called into question, but if you ask for their opinion, they’ll tear you to shreds with a most uncommon brutality. They must be sensitive about it.

If knowledge is not known, it ceases to be knowledge. The Inlaid Library’s virulent swell of forbidden lore yearns to inscribe itself into an open mind. Left for decades with only dust for company, that lore made a home for itself. Fortunate are we that the Dust Elementals have no tongue to speak it.

Some say these many-limbed beasts descended from a great Lord of Hell, whose domain is the healing arts and philosophy. A noble lineage claimed for what was clearly the result of some drunk necromancers and a sewing kit.

Behold, the blasphemy of lactomancy! These homogenized horrors were formulated to pulverize and pasteurize in the name of their intolerant Milk Mages. Any who’ve tried to cream them end up torn in half… and half! This entry has been condensed for those who prefer to skim.

When a shrimp yearns to be a dragon above all things, the Horned Shrimp may take pity on it and bestow a form most mighty. Or rather, a form almost mighty. It turns out that being the patron god of all shrimp doesn’t let you make anything much more intimidating than this, but the shrimp are happy!

There are works so incomprehensible in theme and meaning as to fracture the reader’s very grasp of reality. Torn from the material world through sheer force of their disbelief in it, these scholarly fools are only one last thought away from volatile oblivion.

There’s a perfectly rational explanation for this. Perhaps these items are the product of a mage’s trickery, or automata dreamed up by Gallo’s gibbering scientists. Maybe each one is filled with a colony of vindictive ants that push them around from inside. Let’s eliminate those possibilities before we mention ghosts.

Colder than their own teats, these matriarchs of magic love being ugly, terrifying crones. They genuinely can’t get enough of it. The cackling, the cauldrons, the calling of young maidens “my pretty.” If there’s a stereotype you could attribute to hags and the hag-based lifestyle, these women live it without shame. Good for them.

The Futile Scribe’s quest for truth ended with nought but babble and madness. Still, there are those that claim to see wisdom in even his most erratic scrawlings. Whether charlatans or fools, it cannot be questioned that, for those with a thought to wield it, there is power in madness.

Far from true mummies, both spiritually and geographically, their sorcerous creators justify the appropriation of other undead cultures by claiming they just really like the aesthetic and that real mummies should take it as a compliment rather than being so offended all the time.

Ranked among the most detested creatures in the land, they find crude sport in pushing unsuspecting victims from ledges when they’re most vulnerable. Faced with an enemy that neither jumps nor climbs, however, they find themselves rather powerless.

Brooding in vast nest colonies at the crown of Gallo Tower, these harpies delight in dragging prey high into the sky and ripping them in twain with frighteningly strong talons. To maintain this incredible lower body strength, they never skip leg day.

Cursed by vengeful librarians for the crime of sneezing too loudly, they are perhaps the most pitiable of all wretches. Congealed for all eternity, to slay these victims of disproportionate retribution is a mercy. You’d probably get good karma for doing it if there were such thing as a morality system.

Mischievous demons who specialize in tomfoolery, shenanigans, and all fourteen disciplines of nonsense. Known for practical jokes, rude limericks, and the occasional cheeky mass murder.

Incredibly self-conscious about their appearance due to a glaringly obvious abnormality. If you’re unfortunate enough to meet one, on no account should you ever point out they’re not wearing shoes.

Faustian and furious! Low ranking Devils march upon the enemies of Hell armed with infernal pitchforks and an encyclopedic knowledge of the harshest places to shove them.

Boys possessed of prodigious magical talent are regularly sent to Gallo’s esteemed Academy of Alchemia. Here, they hone their powers, learn devastating spells, and perfect the art of lacemaking.

The Sisterhood of Witches keeps secrets that could topple dynasties. Four fifths of these secrets are sex scandals. The influx of noble bribe money ensures that no witch goes without a fancy hat.

Giovanna resented being assigned Mage at birth, and proudly took up the way of the broom and pointed hat. Her sisters, who claim they want to “protect witches’ spaces,” have sworn to oppose her and all who fight by her side. Maybe one day they’ll accept that anybody can be a Sassy Witch if they truly want to be.

The twisted result of science and sorcery, these animated suits of armor were mass produced at Gallo Tower as one of its most profitable creations. The sword’s size is terrifying, but woefully impractical, rendering it too heavy to be swung. That hardly matters when it can still mash you like some sort of genocidal butter churner.

A deluxe model Archon featuring the exact same stats at twice the price. Sold as a luxury defense option, its sheer size and impressive strength do much to hide the fact it’s mostly made of recycled infantry helmets and old buckets.

Serpentine seductresses whose hypnotic gaze can lure even the most willful of scholars to an early grave.

Wreathed in shadow, eyes glowing red, such oversized terrors that flap in the night must surely be the sign of a vampire’s approach, yes? Well, no. They’re bats, and nothing more. I’ll admit they’re really bloody big, though.

Gallo Tower’s early horticultural experiments yielded nought but horrifying mutants. These oversized mantids were bred in Lab 22 and subsequently dumped in the Mad Forest when it became apparent they couldn’t be trained and tasted terrible.

Despite appearances, these shambling cadavers change their bandages daily. Whatever’s going on underneath all those wrappings remains a mystery, but one presumes it’s thoroughly disgusting.

The center of this flower possesses an attractive feminine form, but it’s little more than a lure, cleverly folded petals puppeted by the carnivorous flower that houses it. Those prone to thinking with their britches are likely to become easy prey.

They reek of fish, drip saltwater everywhere, and talk with really off-putting gurgly voices. Striving to please their Damp God, the Mermen joined with the Lizards in their overthrow of the Dairy Plant.

Having grown envious of the mammalian ability to produce milk, the Lizard Folk staged a hostile takeover of the Dairy Plant and seized the means of lactation. Having slain the last of the Milk Mages, these creatures have instigated a campaign of udder despair.

While these sinister visages think independently, their shared digestive system necessitates a symbiotic reliance upon each other. One head can only consume solids. The other, only liquids.

Without these stalwart captains, the reptilian forces would never have found the iron discipline and brilliant strategy needed to sneak into a dairy and stab a load of milk-obsessed old men in their sleep.

A demonic variant of the Twin Snakes, hence the name Twin Demons. You can tell they’re demonic because they’re a bit red. Classic case of demonicism right there.

Favored pets of the Mermen, their tendency to sting everything within five yards, as well as their complete disregard for potty training, makes them unpopular with literally everybody.

These stealth operatives are among the most highly skilled of the undead armies. Their undercover tactics and specialization in sneaking missions are everso slightly undercut by an insistence on wearing brightly colored uniforms.

Makes up for the lack of a secondary head by being really, extra, super-duper demonic! They’re not overcompensating, they’re perfectly compensating.

The Milk Mages of the Dairy Plant devised these constructs as animated pales, for reasons that could only be described as stupid. Completely hollow inside, they can be filled with milk and deliver the cargo to destinations as far away as two miles. The journey takes weeks.

Yes, they’re bulls. Yes, they’re the source of most of the Dairy Plant’s milk. No, you really shouldn’t ask.

While their milk yields are sour, a Mignottaur’s famously tender meat commands a high price at market. Of course, the creatures’ would-be butchers tend to become butchered first.

An Archon model designed to respond to a wide variety of commands, provided those commands involve stabbing something with a long sharp stick.

The least fancy of all Archons, but perhaps the most effective. Marching methodically into battle with a big axe and shield might be boring, but it gets the job done.

Fleshless and featherless, the Skelewing flies in the face of all aerodynamic convention. It is theorized that a Skelewing’s extraneous appendages are the grafted remnants of a Skullino’s discarded body.

Mighty warriors of the oceanic depths, Tritonts are famed for their stunning good looks and charisma. Their enigmatic haircare routine is one of the most treasured secrets in all the world, with entire nations having fallen in violent pursuit of the knowledge.

A resentful creature with the body of a lion, the tail of a scorpion, and the wings of something with wings. The poison contained within their barbs has a potent hallucinogenic effect, and they like to purposefully sting themselves to maintain their delusions that they can fly.

Gallo had long been haunted by frequent nightmares of being petrified slowly from the feet up to the head, but perhaps more frightening were his dreams of a gigantic predatory chicken. The Gallotrice’s birth was the moment he began to consider that scientific blasphemy as a form of emotional therapy might not be helping anybody.

Big, Big Golem! Put it together, and what do you get? The Big Big Golem Construction Set! Load it up! Truck along! Dump it out! Big Big Golem!

Following Gallo Tower’s abandonment by its founder, the scientist-sorcerers that remained were free to satiate their every curiosity, no matter how perverse or unhygienic. The Meat Golem is what happened when “Do No Harm” became “You Do You.”

They are not guardians that carry swords, but rather guardians of their swords. They jealously attack anybody who so much as looks at their mighty blades, which is practically everybody because look at the size of ‘em!

With a name like theirs, these colossal crustaceans were kind of railroaded into antagonism by a society that didn’t want to understand them. Would it surprise you to learn that Giant Enemy Crabs have an entire culture of their own? Schools of philosophy? Arts and education? Bigotry truly is a sad, sad thing.

A Molisano that’s sad.

A Molisano that’s happy.

A Molisano that you could introduce to your parents.

A Molisano that remembers when you were only yay high.

A Molisano that doesn’t really do much at all because it’s really, really dead.

Where are all the snowman when it's not the festive season? Here.

Fleeting visions of ghastly humans from a past far away. Some of them carry ancient memories, and might whisper to you some of the worst things they said when they walked the earth like "you have to pay us 20 gold per install". Today, nobody remembers them.

Sometimes there's so much greed summoned in the world that there aren't enough creatures, dead or alive, to contain it. When that happens, greed soaks into things and brings them to act, even the deep earth itself is raised into berserk elementals. Available in white and blue.

Despite appearances, a Madd-Onna is absolutely not a ghost, but just an illusion of a very angry woman who had lost every- actually she looks like she's singing now- no she's a dancer- wait is she sifting rice- could someone pause that animation loop please?

An enormous nine-tailed fox capable of summoning dire illusions, the Kizzune is a treacherous adversary that moves with formidable grace and speed, and hits heavily with its flaming tails. The Kizzune is heavily slowed down by snow and hates fire.

Santa Ladonna’s experimental alchemy often has unforeseen side-effects, such as these strange automatons. When one of Ladonna’s rituals went awry, she accidentally opened an angelic gate that spewed celestial magic onto a pile of her old VHS tapes, spawning this clanking cadre of retro robots.

“Why do angels keep invading that rusty, dusty old workshop? They’re supposed to be invading my church!” After making a cavalcade of such envious complaints, the Cardinal finally opened up their vast coffers and paid these Bounty Hunters to prevent anyone from getting into or out of the Laborratory. They’ve been prowling the corridors of Santa Ladonna’s old haunt for a few years now, each trying to figure out a way to escape without the others noticing.

What is the most dangerous game? This interstellar apex predator has scoured space and time to discover the answer to this question, hunting elk, alien mega-bears, and even defeating several futuristic virtual hunting simulators. Now, they’ve determined that the most dangerous game of all is hunting vampire hunters in an abandoned alchemist’s lab.

Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Unless you ask for the same thing 13 times, then you know what happens? Mecha-Gyorunton!

Tired of being expected to surrender a tenth of their eggs to humankind, the chickens launched a violent rebellion. Perhaps the hen tithe was a mistake. Now it is we who shall be sent to the other side as the world becomes a clucking hell.

Anyone who refused to take the poultry rebellion seriously received a wake up call when these guys appeared. Each cock is a hardened gallus and happy to crow about it, commanding the chickenfantry so humanity’s hubris may come home to roost.

Initial waves of chicken violence went unreported as nobody wanted to admit they’d just been savaged by a gang of adorable baby birds. One man bled to death rather than admit his arms had been chewed off, insisting he still had both hands even as they digested in the belly of the brood. They’re so cute though!

These crack troops are often used as ordnance, their shellfire creating a yolk of suppression. Always in the vanguard, they arrive before the chickens do. Even if we’re overthrown by killer birds, it’s nice to have settled that debate.

Particularly zealous chickens may undergo “Roastification” - plucked, gutted, and cooked with an onion shoved up themselves, alive and aware the entire time. Posing as tasty floor food, they devour any who eat them from the inside out. Fear the army that marches in your stomach.

Is it a god, is it a demon, or is it just a chicken that got really, really big? Science has suggested the latter, but contractual obligation to make this book as spicy as possible suggests some fowl combination of the first two things, thus satisfying the further obligation to refer to at least one creature from the Coop as “fowl.” Who doesn’t love a bit of birdplay?

The finest of the feathered fiends, moving gracefully even while stamping on their victims’ skulls with such brutality we coined the term “head porridge.” Many heads have been porridged, and at least one was mueslied, in the merciless march of the Abraxas Crown. Despite their advanced intelligence, they can still be fooled by a leaf-covered hole and a sign reading “free bird seed.”

Chicken Wizardry is one of the oldest forms of magic a sage can perform. Some say it’s just regular magic with a tenuously shoehorned bird theme, but take not lightly the dark powers of peckromancy. Not only can it make chickens run around after losing their heads, it gave rise to the most dreaded monster of all - a palette swap with buffed stats!

A bio-engineered alien soldier, based on nature's perfect predator - the bat. Unfortunately, the aliens who designed this warrior were not informed as to the existence of tennis rackets.

All rabbits live on the moon, it is known.

Within a generation, duck society has moved with unprecedented speed. Developing technology for locomotion, weaponry and aeronautics, they've investigated some of the most pressing questions in science and the humanities. But the story of the ducks has barely even begun.

The Space Ants build complex networks of tunnels within planets and moons, lit by crystals, oxygenated by mushroom colonies. However, their perfect and orderly society has done little to dissuade other beings from dubbing them the basement dwelling losers of the cosmos.

Ancient scrolls discovered in the deep subterranean temples of their home planet foretold that these beings would conquer the world. They did not, in fact, conquer anywhere, but got chased away by an astronomer wielding a blowtorch.

These blobs are actually super friendly and just want to deliver you a pleasant Experience. Unfortunately, they aren't aware that their bodies are composed of a slightly acidic slime.

Burner of libraries, champion of crashes, hogger of memories, this puzzle box is made to look smart and appealing while it's actually full of half-digested piles of sludge that slowly seep through its surface, making anyone who fell for its enticing presentation and dared to touch it end up sticky, icky, slow, frustrated, bombarded by soliciting attempts, and suddenly be charged hidden fees. Also a necessary evil.

After a pair of Twin Snakes die, their skeletal remains may mysteriously reawaken. They’re generally not pleased with this, because being a Twin Snake wasn’t particularly thrilling to begin with. They look happy though, so at least they don’t bring the mood down.

Nobody knows where these massive laughing skulls first came from. Nobody’s stopped to ask, because they’re massive laughing skulls and they eat horses.

When a panther’s hunger is so great that not even death can satiate its ravening, it returns to feed once more. It doesn’t know that its tummy has long rotted away, however, and is forever confused as to why it can’t keep down its prey.

The answer to the question, “What if skeletons were big?” The Cardinal would ask this question daily to his necromancers in that whiny tone of voice that suggested he really wanted them to make some, but was too embarrassed to outright ask for it. They eventually just made some.

More skeleton per skeleton. Skeletons that skeleton harder than the average skeleton. Hobbies include being skeletons, thinking about skeleton stuff, and casual skeletoning. God, the word “skeleton” is weird.

Said to be the result of attempts to create a “Bone Moon” for reasons that defy all sense and logic. Driven by hundreds of minds with a singular purpose, it is drawn to places of high skeletal activity with the intent of adding to its chittering mass and growing ever bigger. How would a Bone Moon even work? Pray this horrifying absurdity never comes to pass.

Powerful guardian of a race long thought extinct. Its mask represents the Sun, giver of life, subject of worship, and friend to ice cream sellers everywhere.

Powerful guardian of a race long thought extinct. Its mask represents the Moon, bringer of tides, object of mystery, and something to look at when you’re bored at night.

Powerful guardian of a race long thought extinct. Its mask represents advanced civilization, mastery of the world, social order, and littering.

Powerful guardian of a race long thought extinct. Its mask represents fire and fury, the rage of the natural world, seething heat and opposition to a man named Joe.

Beautiful but baleful, it is unknown whether these delphic entities are true living Atlanteans, magical constructs of a fallen civilization, or something even more curious. They’re not ghosts, so let’s eliminate that nonsense from the possibilities. Their masks are alluring, but none survive the demise of the wearer.

Known among reptilian experts as “the long mover,” they are happy little noodles and very adorable. So that nobody has to feel guilty mowing them down in the tens of thousands, let’s say they really enjoy being mowed down in the tens of thousands.

The ghastly consequences of experimental pesticide. Despite the name, they are not related to traditional garlic, making them useless as wards against the surely inevitable appearance of a vampire.

Crossbred by a trio of berry farmers, this offshoot of the Garlic is delicious but deadly. The farmers found this out after trying to make berry milk from its poisonous deposits. It was a ridiculous way for them to die.

Their woeful existences are similar to that of Sig.ra Rossi, but they’re significantly more depressed about it.

Did you know that when you put a lot of crabs in a bucket, they actually don’t try to pull each other down to stop any single one from escaping? That was something we projected onto them based on our own cynical and selfish attitudes. Just another example of anti-crab propaganda that your humble author hopes to challenge.

I can’t see them, but they see me. I can feel them. Watching. Always watching. The pressure of their gaze pushes down on me like earth on the grave. Who’s paranoid? Me? I’m not paranoid. You’re paranoid. Who’s looking at me from behind those lidless orbs?

The Interns of Eternity, they’ll reap anything but a paycheck. Really though, isn’t the work experience enough? Many are the apprentices of the Grim Maschera, each hoping to impress Lord Death enough that they may finally harvest souls on commission.

Beautiful and deadly warriors, the Tetrabrachia act as footsoldiers for Cappella Magna’s pious ruling class. They claim they can never be ambushed or surprised in a fight, because four-armed is forewarned.

An automated soldier with a tendency to overheat and catch fire. Rather than fix the problem, Gallo Tower claimed it was a feature instead of a bug, and sold these flame-wreathed safety violations to a cabal of demons who gave them great user reviews.

The Succubi came to Capella Magna in hopes of sowing seductive discord and bringing down the Most Holy Order from within. Their efforts have been met with complete frustration, however, as you cannot corrupt that which is already rotten to the core.

“When in doubt, make the sword bigger.” This design philosophy was key to the creation of the Rame, which also boasts the upper body strength required to lift said sword more than a foot off the ground.

When the Most Holy Order began ordaining literal demons, some suggested that perhaps the integrity of the system had been compromised. What foolishness. The system had no integrity to begin with.

Former personifications of innocence, their harmonious chorus once sang the glory of the Heavens. Now they sing of despair and destruction, of infidelity and indecency, of torment, torture, and mixing trash with recycling.

Porcelain faced miscreants that chant incessantly and ring their bells when others are trying to sleep. Even before their turn to evil, they were famed for being annoying and just a little bit creepy.

Angelic abominations whose beauty belies a malevolent intent. Soaked in vice, their every whim is a sick contradiction of the virtues they once extolled.

Gilded automatons drafted into service by the Most Holy Order to keep the peace. They didn’t so much keep the peace as keep breaking all the fancy stained glass with their mindless lumbering. They’re as expensive as they look.

Moved into Cappella Magna after the Order’s decisive fall. Spreading depravity and debasement wherever they roam, the Demon Beasts satisfy every wicked desire that crosses their lewd minds. Seriously, these guys are into some nasty, nasty stuff.

Big. Red. Horny. It really doesn’t get much more demonic than that. Arch Demons strive to exemplify all that it means to be a demon, and they’re diabolically good at it. They swear a lot, too.

Created to reach the stars, but she's gone much, much farther than that. She tore a hole in our universe, a gateway to another dimension. A dimension of pure chaos. Pure… evil. Look at her, isn't she beautiful?

“How many heroes have fallen now? How many campaigns have blazed a trail to power unimaginable and ended with a weak, pathetic bleating? Fight us if you will, forget us if you can. You soon shall be just another one of us. Defeated.”

Run from him. Defy him. Maybe even kill him, should you prove so arrogant. No matter the outcome, Lord Death always wins in the end. You can close your eyes, turn your head, and scream into the void, but with time you all shall wear his mask.

A Reaper that specializes in murder by illusion. Treasure hunters especially fall foul of the Trickster’s deadly jokes, eagerly pocketing the gems it manifests and learning all too late that they’ve stuffed their pantaloons with supernatural explosives. Loves to be the death of the party.

A Reaper that can’t take a hint. Once they set their eyes on a victim, nothing can dissuade them from an obsessive campaign of terror. Many of the Stalker’s victims die from exhaustion or simply surrender after years of pursuit. Beware should it take an interest in you. Wherever you go, it follows.

A Reaper that loves to make it rain. Stories claim that it once did so for forty days and forty nights, simply to impress a guy. In battle, the Drowner is a master of wet work, preferring to dampen the spirits of its adversaries with a torrent of abuse. Don’t fall foul of the original dead pool.

A Reaper whose true form lies beyond the edge of sanity. Bearing the power to alter reality itself, it exists to confuse and disorient, and feeds on the mental anguish inspired in its victims. When robbed of its ability to beguile, however, it falls prey to the very fear and bewilderment it causes in others, its very sense of self overridden by sheer panic.

A Reaper that considers itself a true visionary. It’s able to cast a veil of darkness around any hero it lays an obsidian finger upon, but every time it turns up for a fight the battlefield is already so full of particles, colors, and special effects that nobody can see a damn thing anyway. It contents itself by watching those heroes desperately hunt for floor chickens amidst the colorful chaos.

When the power of friendship goes planet. The ultimate personification of oblivion, The Ender encapsulates all aspects of true despair - Death, Madness, Obsession, Deceit, and Being Wet. Its arrival signifies true futility, a final warning to those who’ve embarked on a doomed quest and refuse to understand that what they seek is not here, in this world or the next.

Your favorite monsters like you’ve never seen before… BIG!

Was the last season of BIG monsters not BIG enough for you? Well, try these BIG monsters on for size! They’re so BIG!

How are you not impressed by how BIG these monsters are? They’re so BIG!

Its father was a great beast that arrived to this world within the belly of a meteor. Its mother was a fish. Each head has its own personality, core values, and political affiliation.

All that glitters is not gold. Sometimes it’s bats. While such a rare creature might seem to herald the coming of something truly momentous, it might surprise you to learn that, despite appearances, they are bats, and nothing more.

Boundless gifts. Sights beyond reality. Glimpses of the unthinkable.

Creatures of the stars, attuned to the syncopated rhythms of the cosmos. Untouchable to those not aligned with the correct astronomical wavelengths. Either that, or they’re just a bunch of mad lads who like to boogie down.

Those aware of the rare corner of the astral realm in which matter and soul blend into fair new configurations have learned to fear the Astral Chair. To share the air of the dread Chair is to invite wear and tear on the body bare. But what do you care?

There are rumors about these robes being sentient demons, capable of entangling unsuspecting bystanders and forcing them to do their devious bidding. They are said to appear when someone forgets to close the windows in very tall towers.

In this astral plane, the fire of the Infernas reaches into the minds of cosmic entities, driving them into a frenzy of harmonic discord. A veritable disco inferno, if you will. You won’t? That’s very fair. Strike that bit from the record.

Some portraits contain the souls sold by certain witches to obtain eternal youth and health. But let's talk about the Poetrait instead. As Poe becomes ever more aged and garlic scented, this elegant portrait becomes ever younger and smells increasingly of lavender. Who wouldn’t clamour for A Picture of Poe to Display?

Some see death as the great equaliser - the inevitable levelling of humanity that strips away rank, wealth, and creed. Those people will still have to report to Lord Ghost in the afterlife, paying spectral tithes to his spectral lordship. Or so it would be, if there were such things as ghosts.

When the great many-faced god of all things encountered the empty void, the void spoke thus, “Canst thou provide substance? Canst thou provide form?” And the many-faced god answered thus, “As a tonic for thy formless sorrow, I shall create a beginning of things. An embryonic gift, thinly shelled in the atomic matter of a new universe, and containing a concentration of reality.” In modern english: “Can I offer you a cosmic egg in this trying time?”

Even as infant demons, these gore-craving boors would graffiti the word "BLOOD" on the walls of the underworld and carve it into their satanic schooldesks. Among the most irritating of all hellspawn, they constantly chant about their abounding bloodlust, loudly proclaiming that they just cannot get enough of that vital red stuff. Frequently on the forefront of any infernal invasion force wherever reality intermingles with their evil nether-realm, these demons are always sent to the frontline, mostly because everyone just wants them to go away.

Have you ever read the tragedy of Seiu Darkasso the Sly? It’s not a story many who fight the forces of hell would tell you. It’s a vampire legend. Seiu was a warlock thrall, one so mighty and sly that they could control blood through occult incantations, manipulating life itself. This warlock had such knowledge of hemomancy, they could even prevent death… though, yes, mostly they used these powers to kill people. Seiu became so mighty, the only thing they feared was losing their sanguinary power. Eventually, of course, they did. They taught their neophyte every dark art they knew. Then the neophyte killed them while they were taking a power nap. Isn’t it ironic? Seiu could prevent death, even reverse it, but not for themself. Anyway, Ju Darkasso is the neophyte that killed Seiu Darkasso. Honestly, the less said about this warlock weirdo, the better.

Technically shapeshifters, these unpredictable terror-dogs have all chosen to maintain the form of a horrible hell-hound, finding perfect for mauling their enemies and enjoying demonic belly rubs. Though typically deployed as sentinels guarding the gates of important hecksites, some scheming Foo’Ori Darkassos are known for their abilities to posess mortals to complete secretive missions - if they don’t get distracted by any particularly appealing dog food first.

Once the prophetic terrors of the tides, these primordial shapeshifters were unable to predict their final fate - bewitched by the stone-sorcerer Bomarzo and bound to an eternal battle for Room 1665.

Animated by the devilish stone-sorcerer Bomarzo, these diabolic golems are composed of ogre dieties caught in a moment of intense embarrassment. Before their petrification, these ogres feasted on the flesh of liars, but all came to the same end - caught mid-bathroom-break by Bomarzo and transformed into automatons of his wicked will.

After witnessing mortal heroes “dual-wielding” two weapons at once, devilish fleshcrafters decided to one-up their corporeal enemies, creating these demonic golems capable of quad-wielding four forsaken hellblades at once. Due to an unreasonable infernal deadline the fleshcrafters didn’t actually have time to make them any weapons, leaving the Eh’Lleve-Teh Darkasso unarmed with a minor case of impostor syndrome.

Hell operates on a trickle-down treasurenomics system, and these tiny troublemakers are sick of demonic inequality. The Levatee Darkasso collective have seen right through the unfair structure that constrains them, benefitting the treasure chest hoarding “Bosses” while leaving nothing but a few scant gems for regular enemies - but no longer! These goblinoid thieves are redistributing stolen treasures amongst the demonic masses, so please don’t disturb them.

Greed incarnate, these baneful balls are the final fate of those that succumb to the ancient idiom “eyes bigger than belly”. Hoard roast chicken at your peril, lest the foul magics of Room 1665 transform you into an unholy optical orb, a mouthless being cursed with insatiable hunger. Unless you’re a cat - cats are immune to this, for whatever reason.

Some say they’re the cursed souls of business owners who profited greatly by paying their workers a pittance and keeping millions for themselves. After amassing fabulous wealth, they jettisoned their laborers to pocket just a little more for themselves. This idea has been dismissed as mere myth, for surely no human could be so thoroughly cruel.

They resemble a common undead monster but are in fact a hybrid of plant and mineral. While this floral ore is aggressive, it’s worth cultivating for the precious golden yields. If they’re growing in your garden, it’ll be the only time you celebrate having Piles.

When a jellyfish eats too much gold, a terrifying transformation takes place whereby it turns from a living jellyfish into a dead jellyfish. Kind of obvious, really. A jellyfish shouldn’t be eating any amount of gold. No idea what these things are, by the way.

Renardo the Necromancer made a lot of money after selling Edna’s genome to Gallo Industries. Pressured to deliver another killing machine, he developed Edna II: Gold Bug. He definitely didn’t just nail a cheaply painted plastic head to a dead insect and cash in before anyone noticed.

Their hearts are harder than diamond, they’ll club you to death, and they’re not afraid to call a spade a spade. Know when to fold ‘em if you hear one shuffle your way, lest it deck you. You’ll collapse like a house of dominos.

Barms are sworn to protect scrolls of great literary significance, though the parchments they guard all feature drawings of dubious educational value. It’s best not to describe the pictures, so let’s just say major credit card companies are pushing to have them censored.

The accursed casino has a strict “no rotting body parts” policy. To comply with the flesh code, pestilent ghouls are encased in a gilded carapace that contains their foulness. Most of them work the tables until they go irrevocably mad from no longer being able to scratch their itchy infections.

Brownies are unaffected by the Cursino, retaining their free will and physical autonomy. They soon felt left out, however, since losing one’s free will and physical autonomy became the hot new trend. They pretend to be as enthralled as everyone else, hoping to stave off the most dreadful curse of all - FOMO.

Female and fem-presenting dragons who assist the Barms in their safekeeping of tasteful adult media. They’re completely loyal to the sauce material.

There’s this guy selling keychains of these things who keeps asking me to make them “a thing.” I refuse to burn my integrity by contriving merchandisable horror “lore” for these weird goblins. They’re just stinky little guys, and there’s nothing deeper to them.

Unlike their risqué cousins, these palette-swapped scrollkeepers guard a treasure trove of holy scriptures, straight edge lifestyle guides, and family friendly stories full of moral lessons. Their library is roughly ten thousand times less popular than the one with all the cheeky doodles.

They’d like you to pick a card, any card. You’ll lose no matter your choice, for every single one has been swiped up the Gamblin’s moist buttcrack. A laugh at your expense is the cheapest thing Westwoods has to offer.

Legend has it that a Jastor is born whenever a writer struggles to come up with a pun involving playing cards and clowns. It’s such a highly specific scenario that these creatures are exceedingly rare. Anyway, I once saw one kick a cat’s head off. True story.

When a gambler’s too successful for management’s liking, they may find themself forcibly frisked by furious forest fungi. The Cursino uses these mushroom bouncers to enforce a cap on winnings.

Any adventurer foolish enough to desire entry into Westwoods has got to pay the troll toll to get in. At least, that’s what the naive Toll seems to think. It’s a forest, you can just walk into it from any direction.

The heart of the cards, unless that phrase is trademarked, in which case it’s the primary circulatory organ of 52 rectangular pieces of polyethylene-coated paper commonly used in games such as poker, blackjack, and garlic rummy.

The squirrels of Westwoods knew nothing of money before the Cursino took hold. Now they hoard cash over cashews, demolishing their cute hovels to live in canopy penthouses. This newfound avarice hastened the forest’s fall to gentreefication.

On reflection, the keychain guy might be onto something. If I write a bunch of vague nonsense and arbitrarily redact half the words, we’ll be knee deep in fan theories and selling plush dolls by the boatload. I bet the dimwit proles will eat it up. (Note to self: remove this incriminating note before sending the latest volume for publication)

Torinos come from a pocket dimension famous for its wildlife tours, a sort of “safari” zone if you will. The Milk Mages tried to catch them all after learning how delectable their creamy drippings were. Many instead caught a pair of horns with their all-too fragile ribcages.

A Torino that has evolved through fetamorphosis. Their milk rapidly matures along with them, developing into a potent cheese. Too solid to be extracted through their udders, it must be surgically removed via brie-section.

A fully morphed Torino, artificially evolved by lactomantic magicks. While they no longer yield dairy produce, any milk they consume is processed in the digestive system and comes out as a delicious spreadable. The creation process may give a layperson pause, but let’s be honest, it ranks fairly low on the list of disgusting things a cheese connoisseur is willing to try.

What happened to the previous sixteen Colossi? They’re an urban legend, officially considered fiction despite persistent rumors. Why the heck did we start at number seventeen for this one, then? I’m seriously asking. We know one thing for sure - the Colossus is a beautiful and peaceful beast, beloved by all. Can you imagine ever hurting something so precious, so innocent, so dedicated to the art of minding its own adorable business? You’d have to be a world class coglione to even consider it. Almost as bad as letting a horse fall to its presumed death without bothering to see if it’s okay.

Sinister shadows fall over the generic Italian countryside, flapping, flaming, and freakishly bloody big. Some say that the first vampire was the child of a dragon, but as nobody thus far has ever conducted an interview or an ancestry test with a vampire, I’m inclined to believe “Bat Dragon” is just a title for a very large bat, and dragons aren’t real. What’s certain is that anyone bold or foolish enough to disturb one of these monstrosities is surely marked for death, as the Bat Dragon uses its size, speed, and sonar to relentlessly chase its targets until its thirst for their blood is slaked. The Bat Dragon’s hematophagy and use of sonar almost certainly confirm that they aren’t actually dragons at all - they’re bats, and nothing more. I hope.

Dragons have four legs, plus a pair of wings. Drakes only have two legs, plus a pair of wings. Both Dragons and Drakes are mythical, and Bat Drakelets are actually bats, and nothing more. Bat Drakelets seem to be summoned by Bat Dragons, so they may have some sort of symbiotic relationship. I hesitate to suggest that a Bat Dragon might in some way spawn Bat Drakelets, as they do seem to use them as meat shields, which would be abhorrent parental behaviour even for a malevolent creature of the night.

As above, so below. These strange seraphs rise from the depths of the lake bed, rumoured to be angels that fled the chaos in Capella Magna, only to find that not everything is better down where its wetter. Whatever their divine providence, their celestial song vibrates through water with perfect quality, harmonising with the rumbles of Deep Hams to form a choir that tugs and twists the soul.

Though their name suggests they’d make the perfect surf and turf, Deep Hams are too ethereal to eat, dissipating into cosmic mist the moment any type of tooth gets near them. Emerging from lakebed trenches, they possess an air of celestial intelligence, despite the way the float mindlessly into masses of projectiles with seemingly no sense of self preservation.

Considered a delicacy by absolutely nobody, these cutey-crawlies combine all the slimy wetness of a regular surface slug with the magical dampness of the lakebed. I don’t think they have any idea of the arcane significance of the Lycaeum, or that Moongolow is just around the corner - in fact, I’m not even sure they have brains.

Half-man, half-horse, half-fish, and fully confusing. They rail against the Damp God of the Mermen, choosing instead to spend their time studying the soaked tomes of the Lycaeum and independently developing underwater games.

Whoever named these moist monstrosities was clearly dehydrated, as they’re only found at the bottom of a lake and taste nothing like spinach. These leafy beasts swim around the Lycaeum aimlessly, taking issue with any intruders that disturb their ponderings on dimorphism.

This species of under-lake lizards once had eyes and a high standing in aquatic society before they somehow saw a strange forbidden sign that forever changed their minds, bodies, and souls. Some say they still search for their excised peepers, warped and enlarged to serve some cosmic force, but I reckon they’re just blindly attacking anyone nearby.

One would imagine the prehensile-grabby-hand-tail-thing of an Awizotl would be used to snag prey, but shockingly, these wet pets were created by the ancient arcanists of the Lycaeum to be excellent jugglers. Consigned to live underwater when the Lycaeum collapsed to the bed of a lake, they are completely unable to serve their ball-throwing purpose, causing immeasurable feline fury that they unleash at every opportunity.

If you put a frog in boiling water, it will jump out. If you put a frog in cold water and slowly heat it up, you're being weird. If you put a frog in the arcanely-tainted waters of the Lycaeum, it'll eventually turn into one of these big aggressive amphibians, yet another reason why it really isn't safe to be down there at all.

When this magical sub-species of jellyfish blushes, their translucent membrane turns completely sea-through. Unfortunately, they find having their innards on display in this way incredibly embarrassing, causing them to blush even more in a vicious (and potentially viscous) cycle of awkwardness.

Eldest and soggiest of all the Lycaeum's guardians, they pose riddles to all who dare trespass in those hallowed, sunken halls. Since nobody has figured out how to talk underwater, the only answer a Deep Sphynx has ever gotten to a riddle is "glub glub", which has made them so mad they've just started attacking people.

There 's simply no such thing as ghosts. This is probably just a bat covered in snow, and nothing else.

A yokai which solicits the residents of small villages either with cursed lanterns or trays of lucky tofu. Despite its usually playful demeanour, it despises games of catch - no depth perception.

The slimy bottom-feeders of the yokai world, even other magical creatures are put off by their mossy breath, clammy skin and lewd predilections. Though Kappas could once be disarmed by forcing them to bow and spill their head water, the modern variety is far too uncouth to return such courtesies.

Oh, plump wyrm of such mysterious origin. So coveted, so pleasingly squat, a delicious secret in scaly form. If I cannot have you, then may you be dashed upon the rocks by a survivor, aloof serpent!

Fiendish trickers with a taste for human flesh, these duplicitous creatures pose as monks in order to deceive pilgrims on their paths to the holy temple. You’d think that the four foot long necks would be a giveaway, but you’d be surprised what you get away with, with a little bit of confidence.

Diminutive creature with a colossal temper and known for its cutting wit. Well, just for cutting really. Frankly, its anecdotes are quite boring, but those who point this out tend to have the legs cut out from under them, one way or another.

A magical critter which descends to the earth inside lightning bolts, hailing from another plane of existence. Where they come from, and how exactly it’s a worse place to be than this particular reality, remains a mystery.

Witch, monster, champion of frustrated wives; said to descend from the mountains to curse abusive fathers, husbands and monks. Perhaps due to the higher literacy rates among such people, she has nonetheless garnered a reputation as an evil creature.

Rotund trickster, always seen carrying his tail over his shoulder. Hang on, I’m getting a note passed to me. Oh. Actually it’s not his tail. Probably best you look this up yourself.

Mysterious warriors that descend from the mountaintops to meddle in the affairs of mortals. Friend or foe, they’re always putting their nose in where it doesn’t belong.

Said to be formed from the souls of those who died in haste, cursed by a monstrous form that has enough arms to complete tasks in record speed. It’s supposed to be a curse, anyway, most of them seem to find it rather convenient.

The closest thing oni-kind have to a sage, these portly monsters hold in their thick skulls all manner of obscure ephemera. It’s worth noting, of course, that most of this lore is related to how best to kill and eat various other creatures.

Cunning, violent and vindictive - these demons have been known to cross mountains, seas and grand steppes in order to enact their petty revenge. Thankfully for most of their victims their poor pathfinding skills usually mean these treks are in the wrong direction.

Despite the assumptions people make from their scarlet hide, red oni are amongst the most laid back and sociable of their kind. While they may sometimes devour children, they’re usually decent enough to pay the parents an appropriate price.

It’s a big skeleton. You want a big skeleton? Look no further buddy, this here is a big skeleton. You think you’ve seen big skeletons already? Friend, you’ve seen nothing. Don’t get no bigger than this skeleton here. Show us someone with a bigger skeleton, and we’ll show you a liar.

Ancient legendary dragon of immense power and wisdom. With eight heads, eight tails, and a love for eightfold strong red wine, if you’re invited for a night out by it, best decline. It’ll be a nightmare to carry home.

Poor little goblins who are tired of being misrepresented as sneaky backstabbing thieves. Be warned, for if you choose to slander them, they might just sneak up on you, stab you in the back, and swipe your purse.

It’s said these handsy mammals are among the most intelligent creatures in all the realms. One is skeptical of such a claim, however, as they seem to do nothing more clever than run mindlessly toward their enemies in droves. When has that ever worked?

Among the very first beasts to make their home in the Great Lake, they understand its secrets and mysteries better than perhaps any other. It’s a great irony, then, that casual observers only see them as fish out of water.

It seems they are descended from catfish, as suggested by their facial whiskers, heavy flattened heads, and curious feeding habits in which they pose as virginal maidens and lure gullible lotharios to their lairs.

Do not be fooled into thinking these furry fishermen are related in any way to the common werewolf. Have you ever seen a werewolf catch a largemouth bass? No, that one time doesn’t count.

Descended from the legendary Vegetable Lamb, a sheep suspended above the ground by a mighty plant stalk connected through an umbilical cord. It sprouts other sheep from its body like bizarre woolen fruit. Your humble Lorekeeper is not making this one up. Seriously, it’s in books. Go home, folklore, you’re drunk.

Once a feared race of conquering warmongers until they learned how appealing their whimsical appearance was to human children. They’ve since erased their bloody past and convinced the world they’re nothing but the fictional inspiration for a line of adorable dolls. This is how you rule the world - not through war, but through merchandising opportunities.

Unlike their hillier cousins, the Sea Trow are neither fearsome enough for war nor cute enough to become the next big toy fad. Embracing their inescapable mediocrity, they’ve become keen hobbyists, spending most of their days painting figurines and beachcombing.

Don’t frown, don’t frown, it’s Sam the Sundown Clown! When dusk draws near, it’s him you’ll hear, but feel no fear should Sam appear. Just smile and laugh with the merry mooncalf, just smile and laugh while he tears you in half. He’ll dance, he’ll prance, he’ll slaughter whole families, given the chance. Don’t frown, don’t frown, for the Sundown Clown has come to your town.

It’s the caterpillar cake from Vampire Survivors(™) and the Vampire Survivors family of products! If you’re aged 30+, you owe it to yourself to have Sammy the Caterpillar for your birthday cake.Sammy the Caterpillar is a trademark of the Vampire Survivors(™) brand. Sammy the Caterpillar is not suitable for children of ages 1-29. Sammy the Caterpillar is not edible. Sammy the Caterpillar is not responsible for any Sammy the Caterpillar related injuries.

Once friendly fae folk who lived harmoniously in human homes and merilly performed household chores asking only kindness in return. This peaceful coexistence continued until landlords started counting Brownies as additional occupants for rent calculation purposes, forcing poor villagers to turn them out in droves. Their brooms, once wielded in the name of domestic cleanliness, are now poised to draw blood… or at least cause moderate bruising.

The original Green Knight would challenge brave warriors to freely strike him anywhere on his body, but vowed he’d return a year later and return the blow in kind. These chartreuse charlatans are well versed in the legend of their progenitor, using his fabled challenge to lure enemies close before kicking them right in the plums and chopping their bewildered heads off.

Its magic harp can put people to sleep in their hundreds. Its fiery gastrointestinal outbursts can wake people up in their thousands. The consistently compulsive nature of this gaseous goblin’s explosive expulsions provides relative safety for any who may fall foul of its lowery lullaby.

They’re dwarves. Just regular ol’ dwarves. What more do you want, exactly? Some sort of clever twist on familiar folklore? A delightful parody full of puns and unsubtle political allegories? Sorry, but I’ve Notadam thing to say about them other than the fact they’re dwarves and they believe in free universal healthcare.

The pickled paws of purloining prisoners propagate perilous pains with pinches, punches, and plenty of picked pockets. Also they’re just really creepy and gross, EEW!

There is much debate as to whether or not this creature of Welsh myth predates Christianity. Clearly it does, otherwise the first historical record of its sighting would definitely have read, “Jesus Christ, what is that Godforsaken thing?”

A beautiful but malicious steed with all the strengths of its two compositing forms and none of the weaknesses. The size, strength, and stamina of a horse paired with the unrivaled cruelty of a trout. Those who dare mount it are swiftly dragged to the bottom of the lake, seemingly unaware that they could just get off and swim away.

If you wish to win favor with this consummate hag, you must prepare its favorite meal - hagberry and hagfish stew with a side of haggis. You can’t just present the dish as a freely given gift, however, since they’ll insist on haggling for it.

The Biosynthesis skill allows Fungoman to restore 250 HP over 5 seconds, during which time its Healing Beam ability grants 50% more health. Cloud of Spores deals 134 damage and slows all enemies that enter its radius for four seconds. While clearly born for battle, the fact Fungoman does none of these things in a fight renders it rather useless.

A genuine, bonafide, honest-to-goodness ghost. Only kidding. Ghosts aren’t real, and never will be. I’d sooner call this thing a vampire than an actual ghost, and I haven’t seen one of those yet either.

When the very natural order is under threat, a great coalescence of all life’s benevolence manifests in corporeality a being of such grace and beauty as to bring civilizations to their knees in awe. The purest embodiment of that which is virtuous and true, the very heart of the planet given form. It once caved a man’s head in with its hoof for peeing in the lake. Blood and bits of skull everywhere.

He’s as cold as ice, he’s willing to sacrifice our love. He never takes advice, someday he’ll pay the price, I know. I’ve seen it before, it happens all the time, he’s closing the door, he leaves the world behind. He’s digging for gold, he’s throwing away a fortune in feelings, but someday he’ll pay.

To the average hero, such sights as a floating gorgon head are hardly strange anymore, rendered practically mundane by years of harrowing experiences. The Redusa is something greater, something altogether more dire, deadly, and downright diabolical. For a start, it’s red. If that isn’t terrifying enough for you, I don’t have a second thing. Sorry.

Humanity has long associated the color red with violence, passion, and danger. The color of blood, it awakens both our most primal fears and our most instinctive desires. Neither fear nor desire is stirred when witnessing a gang of drunk jellyfish break into a shop at night and guzzle all the ketchup (which is how jellyfish get drunk, if you didn’t know).

Ceaselessly discharged from the bowels of Hell and coiled to strike. Don’t relax and pooh-pooh them as a passing threat or you’ll be caught short, for their motions lay waste without relief and force thousands to evacuate. Flushing them out is a big job that takes guts, and only the bravest have ever wrecked ‘em. (Note to self: void this log before dumping it on the publisher. It’s crap.)

The stench of decomposition clings to every foul inch of these pestilential wretches. Once innocent villagers, they were twisted by the Priesthood of Putrefaction to serve as their foot soldiers. They’d cling on every word their Decayed Deacons say, if any of them had enough fingers left with which to cling.

Despite their combat prowess, they primarily serve the rather boring purpose of incinerating trash. This is because necromancers are absurdly extra and can’t even do garbage day like a sensible adult. Still, to not take these cremating craniums seriously is to burn with the rest of the rubbish.

Poisonous worms that slither from their river lairs aboard the boats of blasphemers to deliver divine intervention. Once on deck, they unleash a torrent of merciless proselytizing and acoustic guitar music in the name of their god. They’ve not managed to win the Squirm Mother very many converts this way, since they inevitably kill and eat any prospective new worshippers.

This tome already has an entry for a genetically identical snake with a different color. Since your humble Lorekeeper forgot they’re contractually obligated to call something a Snek, please enjoy this superfluous content.

Who can say how or why monsters come with so many color variants. Mutation? Sorcery? A bestiary writer with a bucket of paint trying to up their word count? Nobody knows for sure.

Spicy.

A mage from a distant realm swore its cold face resembled a great scholar who abandoned her tower and disappeared without a trace. He boldly dared to speak with the creature, and did so for hours. None dared intervene, even as the night air froze and the mage, transfixed, froze with it. Witnesses say he uttered one last thing as the tears in his eyes turned to ice: “She is alive there.”

At first glance, it may look like a lazy necromancer bolted a skull onto a decapitated mantis and called it a day. At second and third glance, it may still look like that. Renardo absolutely swears that’s not what he did though, and that Edna is a valid monster worthy of record.

In his life there’s been heartache and pain. He don’t know if he can face it again. Can’t stop now, he’s traveled so far, to change this lonely life… never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and desert you.

This motivational monster screams unsolicited advice about health and mindfulness to any who draw water from the hole it calls its home. It’s a wellbeing well being.

How wet do you have to get in order to be considered a wet version of something that was already wet? About as wet as the Wet Njuggles, an aqueous equine that took the phrase “stay hydrated” to its soggy extreme. Despite their mastery of moisture, the cruel irony is that the leading cause of death among them is drowning. They’d rather a watery grave than to live high and dry, for they understand that wetter is better.

An ogre that’s always harping on about how hot it is. Can’t say it’s lying though, given its status as one of the sexiest beasts around. Scholars well versed in the biology of aberrant creatures have spent years studying this desirable behemoth to understand exactly why it’s so lusted after, but such forbidden knowledge has clearly driven them off the edge of sanity. Their fevered writings are little more than insensible mantras full of references to an eldritch god named Dummy Thicc.

Each one swears they’re definitely a real dwarf and not a human who’s done that thing where you strap your shoes to your knees and pretend you’re a lot shorter than you are. Prone to loudly professing that they’re not disguised as dwarves to access their healthcare, which is generally considered 50% more advanced and 100% less profit motivated.

Here to give you a big hand. It likes to collect plush dolls and impart life upon them with a snap of its mighty fingers, watching with glee as they brutalize each other in a violent melee before spitefully bringing a fist down on the winner. Prepare for a real brawl with this one - it likes to smash.

Imagine this thing crawling in through your window at night, wheezing with a whispered rasp as it shudders its way up the stairs. It approaches your bedroom, clutching the bell around its neck with a trembling hand, staring through a crack in the door. Watching. Waiting. Admiring you while you sleep. After an hour, maybe two, it cannot resist any longer and it wriggles into the room without moving the door an inch. It’s here. It’s here to lick your eyebrows. It wants the nutrients, you see, the minerals your eyebrows hide. It’s going to do this every Wednesday for a year.

H3lloo0! H@llo?/? whERe r U hiDiNG? whEEEEEEEre ha..ve u g0n? GONE? goNnNnNnNNNnNnNN??? W3 h@ve LoOKeD loooooked evERyWhERe for yoU. SaID you w3re AT Base Camp Pain but u WEREn’t th33333re! sAid u wErE DEEEEEEE EL CEEEEEEEEE but W3 C@nT f111111nD u! Oh… wait… there you are. FOunD Y0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000U!

The dread devourer, the grand consumer, the eater of worlds. It has tasted all that creation has to offer, and all of creation is reflected in its ravening form. It is part human. Part monster. Part undead. Part demon. Part abomination. It is not a vampire. It is yet to meet a vampire. It would very much like to eat a vampire. It wants to know if you’ve seen any vampires. It will be far too busy eating you and everything around you to ask.

Smart, mechanically adept, and devastatingly sarcastic, these aliens are always the preferred hire for starship engineering crew. All their instructions drip with sardonic irony, so it's best to do the opposite of whatever they say.

These aliens are something of a biological oxymoron. They're so lazy they developed massive brains for the sole purpose of automating every aspect of their lives. After this herculean feat of effort they spent the following few millennia wallowing in inactivity.

One of the most intelligent and technologically advanced species in the universe. However, due to their intense intellect, they have wisely decided that living in holes next to rivers, spearfishing, and writing poetry are the best uses of their time.

The most successful of shapeshifters eventually become arrogant and egotistical, neglecting useful disguises in favour of more obvious tentacle-ridden forms. This is part of the natural life cycle of the species, for once they reach this point they don't tend to last much longer.

When you're an alien shapeshifter abandoned on a lifeless planet, you have to start getting creative or risk losing your marbles. These skilled shapeshifters have managed to imitate the more uncommon states of physical matter, but they can't help being beans too, it's simply too fun.

The creeping phantom of your mistakes. What if you had connected those wires faster? What if you've trusted that friend a little less? What if you put the damn card in the reader the right way the first time? Well, it's dead and you're not, so I wouldn't worry about it too much.

Part of a twin pair of species that exist in a state of mutually beneficial symbiosis. One species will live underground, farming and building; the other will live above ground in abundant luxury. Every hundred years or so they swap places, so don't expect to see the other species any time soon.

The repulsive meaty effluence of a vicious, yet very cute, murderous monster. It's hotly debated whether these lumps of animate offal are some sort of offspring, or merely a biological defence mechanism.

Did you know that there is a face on Mars? Well, there's actually more than one, and they're all furious. Some suspect this murderous rage is an attempt to make Mars as inhospitable as possible in response to hearing industrialist fantasies of colonising the red planet, but the language barrier makes it difficult to tell for sure.

All I see is a trash bin, a child's plastic construction toy, and a chicken nugget. These must have been added by mistake, nothing suspicious here.

This thing is the result of the descendants of the legendary Frankenstein realising that the key to reanimation lies not in the animal world, but the plant world. Using their tech they managed to revive their long-dead ancestor in a more arboreal form. Unfortunately, the seeds have spread as far as space, and for some reason they've all given themselves the same name.

These lanky aliens fancy themselves as the only truly objective species in existence, able to look at the universe without bias corrupting their perception. They are of course wrong about almost everything, but it's best not to argue - especially about pizza toppings.

Sauntering statuesquely around space, these iconic robotic supermodels have inspired designs across the galaxy. Despite their glamorous looks, they have terrible table manners and respond to most questions with a blast of their ocular laser.

Some say three legs are better than two, but these spindly-limbed war machines tend to fall over frequently when attempting to conquer planets. Despite their ungainly lumbering, they've managed to "invade" seventy-five settled planets by setting up chains of low-cost supermarkets in the name of their lazy Brainoid masters.

A venerable old battle-bot with a legacy of service stretching back decades. Unfortunately it's friendly fire protocols have deprecated, so rampaging battle groups of the old machines terrorise abandoned worlds to this day.

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. I'm not sure this thing has a soul, but it definitely has an unnervingly "cute" face, and a lot of gross tentacles. I'd recommend cutting them off as soon as possible and sending this murderous meat-blob to the space butchers, along with a side of Meat Beans. Also known as Granbeanlloon.

Making up the majority of Red Falcon's infantry forces, these rifle wielding warmongers have willingly allowed the Alien Cell to alter their DNA to empower their battlefield abilities. Unfortunately for them, every Ledder has mutated in the same way, developing wobbly eye-stalks that make them look more like gun-toting snails than deadly soldiers.

A name given to the dullard infantry of Red Falcon's traitor legions, Greeders haven't even brought a knife to this gun fight. Unarmed, unbothered, and unburdened by any thoughts of personal safety or battlefield strategy, Greeders charge directly at their enemies in attempt to bludgeon them to death with their bulky bodies. Their strategy is less "run and gun", more "run at gun".

Red Falcon's former leaders made a huge hiring push to gather only the most muscular men around to serve as their grenadiers. The results of this groundbreaking campaign had predictably poor results. The ironically named "Warlord" grenadier squad used up all of their munitions during training and are now forced to use literal hand-to-hand combat in the field.

Trotting orb of strange charisma. Will you be our friend, o thou of ungainly stride and piquant metallic shell? Would that we could hold your spherical form in our arms, and admire your shiny stilts. Save us, Evil Snowman, take us away to pastures new and round.

Birthed through Colonel Bahamut's biotechnological experiments with the Alien Cell, these multilegged monstrosities just love crawling around. Though they may seem aggressive, Alien Centipedes are simply obsessed with scurrying, unaware of the effects their spiky, toxic bodies have on impacted bystanders. Were they not currently being deployed as weapons of traitorous warfare these beasts would make challenging but rewarding pets, or at least an excellent source of protein.

By combining the fearsome firepower of the High Speed Tank Booby with the bipedal versatility of the Buried Surfacing Cannon Gulcan, Red Falcon's traitor engineers have created a war machine that is somehow less than the sum of its parts in every conceivable way. Prone to tumbling over due to its top-heavy design and unable to pivot its main turret up or down, the pilots of these botched battle vehicles rely on clumsily stomping their enemies underfoot as the most reliable means of victory. Every member of Red Falcon does, however, remark on how cool they look and how badass it feels to drive one of these horrendous Frankenstein's hot-rods.

Engineered to be the perfect metallic killer amongst an army of tyrannical alien invaders, this nightmare has only one weakness: rust. Also, it can be brought down by shooting it a lot. This is less a weakness and more a fairly universal property of matter barraged by high speed munitions.

When the Aliens first made contact they struggled to overcome humanity's innate distrust of the other, making brainwashing more difficult. Initially they began bio-engineering a pseudo-human to act as their mouthpiece, but scrapped the idea as humans didn't seem to particularly trust other humans either. Here we have attempt number two, inspired by humanity's near universal trust of canines. The human face was a design misstep.

Paratroopers are a relic of the past, at least according to Red Falcon, who prefer to outfit their airborne infantry with armoured wing suits. Those that point out the obvious fallacy of aerial warriors wearing incredibly heavy armour invariably find themselves crushed beneath a pile of angry elbow-dropping Garths. Eschewing any form of weaponry in favour of using their arms to better control their wings, every Garth is nonetheless incredibly intimidating due to their universally well practiced bird impressions.

Pale imitation of a superior design, the ball walker was supposed to be an "improvement" to the unimpeachable perfection of the Evil Snowman. The military contractor responsible was rightfully pilloried by shareholders, the public, and the press. They went out of business swiftly, and good riddance.

50% alien, 50% robot, and 100% physically merged with their Motoroid hoverbike, Hellriders have no choice but to accelerate at max velocity into combat (apparently cyborg technology has not yet developed to the point that brakes can be added to this union of alien-man and machine). Undoubtably dangerous, Hellriders channel their rage at being unable to take a slow, scenic drive into deadly efficiency on the battlefield.

Neo City is well known for its rascal rogue mechanics, strange individuals who stalk the streets performing wild engineering experiments on unattended vehicles. Fresh graduates of elite corporate engineering courses pour out into a wide city with absolutely no domestic engineering work available. Executives determined that had they mentioned that they had already moved all the work overseas, income from tuition fees would drop. Many of these rogue mechanics idolise Contra Force, inspiring them to incorporate weaponry into the upgrades they perform on junkyard vehicles. Ironically, these armed automobiles provided a perfect resources for the bio-mechanical manipulations of the Red Falcon traitors.

The original design of the Flight Zako was born when Colonel Bahamut checkmated one of his lieutenants using a bishop, giving the traitorous Red Falcon leader the idea of attacking his Contra Force nemeses diagonally rather than purely on a horizontal plane. Refinements in design have allowed this battle-bot to travel in almost any direction using its thrusters, especially after pilfering some advanced cyborg code from Contra force, though for some reason some recently constructed Flight Zako units are expressing a desire to "Party like it's 1994".

An alien cyborg supposedly modelled after the visually intimidating but tactically ineffectual Alien Centipede, the M78 has advanced "artificial insidiousness" to make it a true battlefield predator. Its undulating body is raised on tall legs to supposedly protect it from grounded threats, Contra Force have nonetheless found that these machines are very vulnerable to being run over by a truck. Reluctantly lauded by Red Falcon infantry for its prowess on the battlefield when providing fire support, the M78 is despised for the really annoying sound it makes when it walks.

Born haters, these extra-terrestrial beasts are apparently only hours old but desire only to eat the faces of Contra Force. Science experts have suggested that Buggers might behave less aggressively in situations where massively muscular, arsenal-wielding warriors weren't charging into their home, but it's impossible to tell.

The Contra Force science nerds who gave these abominations their unimaginative (but accurate) name really hit a negative triple whammy. Poisonous? Yuck. Insect? Gross. Gel? Slimy. Best to shoot them down while they're at a distance, as they don't smell great either.

Blessed with the ability to partially ignore gravity, but cursed with a dense over-sized cranium, these floating alien crustaceans tumble clumsily forward in an endless roly-poly. The dizziness of such an existence infuriates them, but unfortunately they're more angry with Contra Force than the extra-terrestrial bio-engineers that created them. Attempts to unionise Bundles against their overlords have thus far been a non-starter.

Many Red Falcon traitors mistakenly believe that mutations brought about through willing exposure to the Alien Cell will lead to enhanced might and enlightenment. Sadly, most of these unfortunate volunteers mutate into Zako Aliens, drooling animalistic simpletons bound by a ravenous gestalt consciousness.

What could possibly be done, evil science experts wondered, to make the average fly even more irritating? Simplicity itself! Increase its size considerably, bolt on some sharp clawed limbs with opposable digits, and give it a horrible little face. A potent soldier and a form of psychological warfare, all in one.

The elite among the ranks of Red Falcon's menagerie of bizarre Alien Cell-exposed beasts. These artisanally crafted flesh abominations are aged in finely crafted mutation pods, then triple-steeped in organically harvested Cells from only the best batches of homeworld-grown protoplasmic slurry.

A composite creature fused from numerous life-forms exposed to the Alien Cell, each beast that comprises an amalgamated Kimkoh retains full awareness of their situation. Ordinarily, one would think of this as a kind of living hell, but thankfully they all really like each other's company, so it works out.

Red Falcon's top military scientists and engineers devised a complex war machine, designed to be assembled in the field. Five different classes of inconspicuous military vehicle would deconstruct themselves on the battlefield, reconstituting into a war machine of incomparable power. It turned out to be extremely impractical so they built this giant robot instead.

Originally bioengineered as a self-replicating beast of burden, this alien behemoth was found to have the temperament of an especially misanthropic wolverine. Immune to even the most sycophantic of encouragements, a complex apparatus was built upon its back to direct its unstoppable homicidal charges towards someone other than its masters. Nothing can stop it from spitting out offspring, unfortunately.

Colossal skeletal protector of illicit Red Falcon munitions factories the world over. Near immune to small-arms fire and capable of ripping apart a tank with its bare hands, Big Fuzz is also considered an expert in industrial relations and complex labour legal manoeuvrings, and is thus widely respected by the factory workers.

Simondo is a unique being. Self-built (don't ask how) in a Neo City junkyard, he learned to communicate by listening to old pop music 8-track tapes abandoned in the garbage piles, and fueled himself with discarded takeaways (taiyaki is his favourite). Somewhere along the line he became a battle arena champion by mistake, but his true loves are singing, eating, and Konami games.

When items are stolen and pranks are played, castle dwellers know to hunt down the Flea Man. Flea Men find themselves hilariously adorable but they’re the only ones who do. Their evasive jumping ability is an evolutionary response to everyone wanting to kick their heads in.

Fleatis Minimus, the lesser form of what we colloquially call the “Flea Man,” lacks the prodigious intellect of its more refined cousin, Fleatis Aerodynamica. Ornithologically inclined, they barbarously strike from their empyrean vantage points. This fleasaurus is really paying off.

Armed and armored, a Flea Man’s spring-heeled mobility seems unhampered by the additional weight. Are their legs so unnaturally strong as to defy physics? No, they're just really into cosplay, and are stupendously skilled at shaping foam rubber.

“The Old Gods haven’t left this place, and they still grant power to those who venerate them. Power to defy even death.” So some say of the silent world from which this book of memories was stolen… but that's definitely just a rumour. In truth, these tomes simply got sick of being mishandled by voracious readers and decided to bite back. Those that devour books in the Castle will find themselves devoured instead.

A chilling chandler of cheerlessness with a cold, cold heart. Frozen Shades steal the heat from victims’ bodies to try and remember what it felt like to be alive, but the air around them is too frigid to keep even a sliver of thermal nostalgia.

The easiest way to infuriate these feathery foes is to start singing “If You’re Harpy and You Know It.” They don’t mind the cheap wordplay, but they really hate the bit where you’re supposed to clap your hands.

Animal testing is ethically and morally wrong, even if said testing results in a cool hybrid of lion, eagle, and horse. Nobody is saying those experiments were right, but if we were to play Dracula’s advocate… c’mon! It’s like someone made a tattoo in real life!

The Imps of Dracula's Castle are notably similar to the Impefingers of Gallo Tower. Indeed, many creatures conjoured by Gallo and other mad mages bear a striking resemblance to the horrors harnessed by Dracula, to the point where one could reasonably assume someone was paying a shameless homage.

Humans who ate cursed mushrooms after being promised the trip of a lifetime, which was true in a manner of speaking. These ghouls now crawl the earth, puppeteered by the shrooms themselves while hallucinating for all eternity.

The poor creatures have had their bones broken into crude mockeries that scuttle hither and thither. A just punishment, Dracula deemed, for attempting to form a union in his Castle.

This spicy gremlin is always up for some hot spooning. Also known as a Cauldron Demon, it carries fire from Hell itself to the pots of the blasphemous for obscene rituals and naughty soups.

A fiend that only lives twice. When its mortal body expires, the soul remains as some sort of incorporeal entity. There’s another name for such an undead remnant, but I can’t think what it is right now.

A dead knight that seeks to fight for all eternity. You know those horse costumes you can wear like pants with fake legs made to look as if you’re riding them? Tell him he resembles that and you’ll quickly resemble his steed.

Warg! What is it good for? Absolutely trampling your spine into the ground, ripping off both your arms, and shredding your throat with merciless fangs while you gurgle screams through your soup of a neck. That answers that.

The common Bitterfly has adapted to the Castle’s dark caverns and perpetual night, hunting solely by sound. Due to its ears serving as wings, a Bitterfly can only hear its own flapping and frequently starves to death. The species’ naturally invisible state means explorers often trip over the bodies.

Critics have decried Brauner’s series of self-portraits as “derivative”, “self indulgent”, and “stinking of blood”. Now they’re out for revenge, using what little sorcerous power still suffuses them to fling themselves at any observer and bludgeon them to death.

They know the true meaning of findom. Moved into the watery basement of the Castle after the lakes they once inhabited dried up. Their interests include drowning humans, drowning animals, and peacefully campaigning for climate change awareness.

She has sworn to clean her master’s home until the end of time - she’d never tarnish his reputation by leaving him maidless.

While your rational author is adamant in her assertion that ghosts do not exist, one has to consider that the monsters cataloged in this section of the book come from another reality entirely. Perhaps a world in which Dracula exists could indeed host the spirits of the dead? What am I saying? These have got to be rubber puppets or something!

Neither death nor bisection can stop these zombies - their levitating torsos continue their pursuit of their mortal foes even after being cut in half. Dracula rips apart of his legion of zombies whenever he's feeling moody (which is always, so there are loads of these ghouls).

Yet another skeleton with a detached skull. The castle administrators really need to order more superglue.

It’s heard every joke about “losing your head” imaginable. It doesn’t understand comedy though, since everything goes over its head. Get it? Because it’s on the ground? It’s a slightly different head joke. Why are there so many headless skeletons in Dracula's Castle anyway?

It’s fallen and it can’t get up. The celestial archers were once uncanny marksmen whose arrows always struck true. The Heavens would rebalance their aim, claiming they were too overpowered.

A Gurkha warrior with a Gurkha knife. Is the soldier named after the blade, or is the blade named for the soldier? Since the Internet hasn’t been invented in this particular reality, we may never know.

Bovine brutes whose breath can turn living things to stone. The milk they provide is too calcified to drink, but it’s proven popular as an alternative to cement. Cheap as the stuff is, its use in the castle has led to a number of easily breakable walls.

A terrifying amalgamation of bones, bones, and bones. More bones than can be counted, more bones than the human mind may comprehend. Within its unholy form, you can make out the remains of a big skeleton, a little skeleton, and a dog skeleton.

Their infamous blades can be repurposed as aggressive spinning tops, around which an entire competitive scene has grown. Dracula banned such frivolity after so many minions saw their skulls severed, which might explain where all those headless skeletons are coming from.

Swords once possessed by the souls of violent warriors, now the warriors' souls have taken control in an altogether more frightful manner. While their spirits inhabit the sword itself, the blade casts a malevolent shadow in the form of a once living body. But who truly possesses these possessed possessions? Dracula, probably.

For centuries, the Malachi has been described as a pagan creature, though contemporary researchers question this. For one thing, it listed its own beliefs as “agnostic” on the last Castle census.

It is unknown why the transformation from human to lycanthrope has the side effect of making someone ripped as heck and capable of martial arts with no formal training. Regardless, there’s an entire subgroup of people who find their appearance quite pleasing, a distraction the werewolf uses to its carnivorous advantage.

Sources differ on whether it’s an undead soldier or an empty suit of animated armor. So far, nobody’s been brave enough to get a tin opener and find out.

Loves to animate in front of children who abuse their toys, traumatizing them for life. Manufactured by Battel, one of Dracula’s many commercial subsidiaries.

An Une drawing nutrients from a corpse will take on the appearance of the corpse itself. Should that corpse ever reanimate, it will try to feed on the plant in turn, taking on the appearance of the Corpseweed which, if reanimated, will… well, let’s just say horticultural necromancers love locking Unes and dead bodies in rooms together.

The head is borderline useless with no applicable skills of its own, yet it holds dominion over the laborers whose backs it coasts on. It’s currently entertaining high ranking job offers from a number of game publishers.

Animated dinosaur bones originally created to make museums more interesting to kids. They succeeded with the unfortunate side effect of making museums more lethal to kids as well.

These undead creatures hail from China, yet claim to have met and battled the Dark Lord’s very own son when he was a child. There is no record of Alucard ever visiting China in his childhood, so it’s quite possible the Jiang Shi are just trying to kid Dracula.

A gelatinous spirit bound to an otherworldly cauldron, it is both ghastly and low-key adorable. It flings globules of slime to attack, which is notable because globules is a great word. Keremet has patented the concept of its own existence, believing “Ghost in a Pot” could become a lucrative fidget toy.

A demon that mastered time itself. Santa Ladonna’s trying to professionally headhunt him, believing he could improve the Clock Lancet’s efficiency. Zephyr’s been unwilling to negotiate thanks to Antonio Belpaese trying to literally headhunt him.

Death’s demonic servant has only three desires: spicy food, a horrible end to the enemies of the grim reaper, and to hang out with Slogra.

Peek through the ribs of this skeletal spear-wielder and you'll see they're completely heartless, unless your name is Gaibon. Slogra originally used their spear simply to stab food from further away before Death saw their potential as a combat knight.

Its hatred keeps it moving beyond death, letting not even decomposition put an end to the grudge. They say only two things may remove Behemoth’s soul from the world - the combined strength of every angel in Heaven, or therapy.

Trees filled with evil by an evil god of pollution whose toxic love makes wastelands of woodlands. Their hunger for desolation makes them effective lobbyists, ensuring deforestation goes unchallenged around the world.

Summoning hordes of locusts to attack its enemies in the clergy, Abbadon has long been reviled as a sects pest. He treats plagues as performances, directing swarms with his wand as a conductor would an orchestra. Very stylish for a guy who doesn't wear trousers.

A monstrosity of sorrowful despair. A fool who fancied himself Dracula’s successor created Menace in a failed bid to claim ultimate power. The miracle of birth is said to be a beautiful thing, but those claiming so have never watched a giant chitinous bone baby explode its way out of a very confused man.

A demon designed by committee. His sophisticated armor should represent infernal innovation but instead highlights the demonic tech industry’s need to over engineer things regardless of efficiency. Let’s not even get started on the AI features they shoehorned into it.

A graceful and gentle giant, known for its beautifully iridescent eyes, magnificent feathery tail, and plush hide that smells faintly of elderflowers. Its song can soothe even the most fiery of souls, and glimpsing it in the wild is considered a sign of wholesome tidings. [Note: following a certain incident involving certain sorcerers and certain unspeakable crimes against decency, this entry requires a significant rewrite]

A Medusa Head, but massive. One rumor suggests you can do this to any Medusa Head if you ram a bicycle pump into one of her snake’s mouths and start inflating. Sounds ridiculous, but we’ve already accepted that all gorgons are called Medusa and their heads can float around, so who can say what’s silly anymore?

The cursed manipulator of dolls has surfaced, exerting a will unbreakable as diamond. A keen jester, its wit is sharper than a blade, and it’ll tunnel its way into your head to leech off your life force and torch what’s left.

If you’re scared of your own shadow, you do not want to meet this guy. The darkness cast by his form grows in size and strength with every soul he consumes. If you couldn’t tell, he’s eaten a lot of them.

Living proof that something is out to get you. It makes its home inside mirrors, where the world makes more sense. It’s never been able to adjust to being suddenly right-handed whenever it leaves its natural habitat.

From worlds known to worlds most frigid, from fabled lakes to the depths of space, even to the far-flung future, one truth remains immutable in every reality we discover. This truth’s name is Death. Here though, in the Castle, even Death himself serves another. His loyalty is admirable, and its implications are terrifying.

A dazzlingly beautiful creature, but only sometimes. Truly confused shapeshifters that occasionally spell their name incorrectly, Dracula’s magic ensures they labour under the dreadful delusion that they are the original, and that anyone who looks like them must perish. Fortunately they are incredibly predictable and manipulable combatants vulnerable to cheesy fighting techniques.

He wants to be your sledgehammer. While this tome uses his most popularized name for the sake of readability, those more learned know it to be a misnomer. All scholars know that Dr. The Creature was the name of the creator, not the monster.

Dracula literally has eyes everywhere. Some have protested such constant surveillance as authoritarian, but the castle’s master democratically resolved any controversy via public debate followed by public executions.

This beast from the deepest abyss of Hell has many names, most of them registered trademarks. Speak not its blasphemous monikers, lest ye be cursed by endless litigation.

A startling number of them have escaped into our world and now march on the Dairy Plant, seeking to overthrow its ruling lactocracy and hand power to the workforce. They bullishly intend to maintain a siege until the cows come home.

Calamities only feel the opposite of the expression carved into their faces, except every Tuesday when the emotion matches the appearance. Unless of course it happens to be the 12th or 22nd of the month, in which case they’re slightly to the emotional right of how they look. Said to be the elemental manifestation of the malign influence spreading across Pulchra and Beyond, saving the witchdom might require a mystical therapy session to bring them back to neutrality.

Spirits of the wood known for their divinity. The wood is what they are spirits of, and divine is the trait by which these spirits are known. Not to be confused with Infernal Bush Spookies. Ask yourself if it is in a wood, is a spirit, and is divine - if the answer to all three is “yes” then it’s probably a Divine Wood Spirit. The stunning Brilliance of the Divine Spirit should spell the end for many adventurers through the Emerald Dream, but fortunately they’re more interested in flying about and screaming than they are with eating any nearly-defeated prey.

Boar Infantry and their redder cousins War Hogs make for an ordered and effective military force known for rudely interrupting adventurers from Pulchra to Yomi with meaty counterattacks. Their fronts are heavily armored, but if you think the hind portions are vulnerable, you aren’t prepared for the natural defenses they can deploy at a moment’s notice.

Named not just for their elemental affinity, but because seeing one makes you soil yourself. A single scale is equal in weight to a large boulder, which makes its ability to fly quite baffling, not to mention terrifying during molting season. In the aftermath of the War at Brighthome at least one Earth Dragon has taken to peaceful gardening, using its Gliding Spikes technique to more effectively plant rows of beautiful flowers and crops.

Ancient legends from the Witchdom of Pulchra claim these are former humans who opted out of society to live free and lawless. Their love of liberty is so extreme that merely implying they can’t do something will be met with angry insistences on doing that thing, which is why over 200 Hermits a year die eating poison berries, often using their famed “Lick and Cut” technique. A belief in freedom so zealous as to be indistinguishable from chains.

There’s nothing outwardly maggoty about these flapping facial freaks, which makes one wonder… why are they called that? Are the pirates of Mare Nostrum just having a laugh with these names? Oh gods… they’re not inside them, are they? I swear, if these things are supposed to be packed with maggots and they’re grinning about it, I quit. I quit monsters forever.

Fearsome beasts with the wings of a bird, the talons of a bird, and the taxonomic designation of a bird. Sure, a giant bird might not be the most exciting monster, but I once saw one strangle an ape with its Feather Shot. Yes, strangle. Do you know how determined a bird has to be in order to strangle an ape? Using only its feathers? Terrifying.

Colloquially known as the Psychlops but you probably shouldn’t tell them that. Advanced mental abilities allow them to perceive so much more than depth, having skipped the first two eyes and jumped straight to the third. Fiendish studies of Psychic Ogre specimens haven’t gone far, as their Mind Blast tends to make any potential Delta Base investigators forget anything they’ve learned, as well as what they had for breakfast.

A Decobat’s beak can shatter bones and puncture full plate armor with its Interrupting Tackle technique, preying on the passenger ships of Mare Nostrum and other un-ceilinged places. Even scarier, it can be used to gossip about other Decobats, which these meddling little scandal merchants do all the time. Each monster is involved in at least three slander lawsuits.

Dangerous dog-beasts believed to originate from Pulchra are usually called either Failinis or Barghests, though they’re clearly different colours and have very little else in common. Barghest specimens studied in Delta Base are well known by analysts for their propensity to tear anything left unattended to shreds with their fearsome fangs, and for tearing up the discotheque with their Azure Dance. Failinis, on the other hand, once were genies who became infernal meanies. They love to eat paninis and get wasted on martinis. As demons go they’re teeny and they look cute in a beanie, but don’t assume they’re weenies, they still tempted Paganini. These claims were made by a somewhat wobbly citizen after they were unfrozen in Grelon, so they might not be entirely accurate.

Amphibious conquerors who wish to be feared but cannot conquer the universal truth that frogs are funny. Rana Combatants have proved powerful largely as their enemies are often too busy laughing to fight back. Their Amphibian Assault techniques have conquered foes and left their summoners consumed by fits of laughter in Grelon and Mare Nostrum, leaving the froggy fighters with a frequent confused malaise. If they only wished to make the world a happier place, the Rana would want for nothing.

Though sailors on the high seas of Mare Nostrum refer to these unimaginatively as “Blue Drakes”, I believe this may be a distant relative of the Foscaran Kelpie, which I’ve classified as the Webbed Longneck-Goofbeak Kelpie. Its unusual appearance may lead bestiary authors to underestimate it, perhaps even taunt it during a field study, only to regret doing so when one of the things barfs up its Putrid Breath and stuns their sister with its stench.

Speculated to have evolved from a race of talkative furry creatures that humans kept as pets in the distant past of the 1990s. Biologists dismiss this idea as pure fantasy because stupid science has to ruin everything with stupid facts and stupid research. Fortunately, these furry foes are experts in Metal magic and making their allies move faster, all the better to smash up the labs of Delta Base.

Often referenced by the avant-garde poets of Avalon, Baums are sensitive about a spurious verse suggesting they’re the blasphemous result of an alchemist eating gummy bears too close to an experiment. It’s suggested you don’t refer to one as a “Horribo” unless you want a furious glob of understandably indignant gelatin to deal with.

A naughty veggie boy with a penchant for nudging things. He’s caused real horticultural havoc in the Great Tree, and likes to fiddle around in your garden while poking potholes, chomping on grass, and tickling spuds like the cheeky little spud tickler he is.

Their name isn’t mere wordplay (heavens forbid we start doing puns) but an allusion to the very real hatred they feel towards ants. Anti-Ants hate the “mushroomy” Naml of Cordycep, coined the cruel moniker “Lesser Ants” for those in Wichdom Pulchra, and even found a way to travel through the Junction to insult the esoteric Space Ants. They claim they’re not ant racists, they just want Anti-Ant Land for the Anti-Ants. They’re total ant racists, and frankly their views on caterpillars are pretty disgusting too.

Despite looking like something you’d catch and fight other monsters with, this deciduous decimator’s giant crushing hands make it the most deadly palm plant in existence. At first nobody took it seriously, as warnings about an outbreak of Moch battles were perilously misunderstood. Now, they’re known for their wandering nature, strange life cycle, and their ironically named Felling Blow deployed against daring lumberjacks.

Though the bony undead of Mare Nostrum haven’t figured out how to unionize yet, they do have a piratical system of proto-socialism that seems like it would work quite well - if they had any method of communicating with one another beyond rattling their ribcages and dancing. Delta Base researchers have observed that the most proficient Skeleton Dancers can deploy a Devilish Smash ability, making them particularly good at escaping high-tech containment systems to hold impromptu breakdance competitions.

Bestiary writers being paid per entry has nothing to do with how many werewolves are listed in the average creature compendium. It’s simply important to categorize every werewolf from every possible reality (including Yomi), for reasons far too complicated to discuss. Anyway, this one has brown knickers on.

Delta Base boffins have found no evidence of the inscrutable Specters obeying any form of speed limit, and plenty of evidence that those spiky wheels aren’t just for show, especially when use in conjunction with a devastating Axel Turn. Fast, apparently immortal, and a big fan of throwing exploding heads at its enemies, the Specter of Iwanaga-hime ranks highly amongst the forces of Chaos in Brighthome. Its subordinates often mishear its orders as it speeds around, but that just ensures truly chaotic operations.

These quasi-angelic spirits are thought to be manifestations of maleficent thoughts, born to constrain others with their Freezing Blaster. Iron Maidens coalesce occasionally amongst the dour towers of Yomi, though one appeared to seal away the power of the Final Emperor in Grelon, probably out of spite. As it turns out, most folk’s nasty notions take on the physical form of a gigantic horse-angel-thing with gorgeous flowing hair and a set of floating wings, but I’m not a psychologist or a theologist so I couldn’t tell you what that means.

Sometimes a simple string of bad decisions is all it takes for your local magical ruler to transform into one of these blood-curdling beasts, capable of interrupting any discourse with a Demonic Counter or a rude swipe of its monstrous claws. Active participation in the politics of your realm is the easiest way to prevent these spirits from menacingly blocking access to your nearest extra-dimensional door.

Constantine, is this fate? Or just destiny? What lies Beyond, unknowable, but forced to threaten the Conjoined Worlds. Remember the forbidden lyrics, find your voice, give us one last song and dance.

Sometimes called Batlatros, they’re considered pests by the citizens of Balatropolis for getting guanatro on everything. To the casual observer, their heads ever so slightly resemble that of a human clown’s, but rest assured they’re bats and nothing more.

They got a raw deal when the Reaper called their number, shuffling off this mortal coil in dire straights. Rather than just lay down, they reraised and now openly limp in search of guts to open with their fouled hands. I bet this entry polarizes readers who’ve hit the limit on wordplay, but I think I aced it.

Skeletal jokers who have had their last laugh. It is said they have the power to protect a comedian from dying on stage if at least 25% of their jokes are funny.

Everybody knows Spectral Cards aren’t real. The very idea that cards can become ghosts really highlights how stupid the ghost truther movement is. Spectral Cards are a hoax created by jokers in cheap Halloween costumes that aren’t fooling anyone.

If you challenge these jovial insects to a game of cards, they have to accept, such is the compulsion of the playing mantis. Just make sure to let them win, because those claws can cut more than cards.

Capable of adding a X3 Mult to their damage, but since multiplier mechanics don’t work in real life, the powers of the flowers are absolutely meaningless.

Jesters who tell particularly risqué jokes are sometimes punished by being fed to carnivorous plants. That’s what you get for being a blue joker.

Cursed card sharks who transform into wolves under a full house. Known for being greedy, wrathful, lusty, and gluttonous. The hats may make them look friendly, but they’re worn purely for brand awareness.

It seems the pippistrellos of the Mad Forest took exception to the phrase “blind as a bat” and are using this Blind AS a bat with which to bludgeon us all. It’s just a small one though, so it’s nothing to worry about.

The bats have upped the ante with this one! Like a Small Blind, only bigger and therefore much more dangerous. Unfortunately, you can’t choose to skip it in exchange for some bonus rewards so your only choice is to survive!

It can steal the money right out of your pocket, which the bats spend on comic books, cola cubes, and offshore investments. Due to its thieving nature, it is colloquially known as the “Robs You” Blind.

A Blind that comes in extra large, which is great news for the plus size market. Nothing fancy about this one, it can simply take loads and loads of damage. You’d think you could just target the bats so they drop it, but they don’t teach target selection in Vampire Survivor school.

Don’t touch it or it’ll bite a finger off, inflicting minus one to your hand size. Can you believe this bestiary is free? Funny AND well researched, what a bargain! Anyway, I think this monster is based on something from a game called Clown Cards.

A weapon to surpass the Boss Blind, it’s the BIG Boss Blind! She is no joke, which is a really great joke if you get the joke. Take heart when the chips are down, and poke her face with whatever you’ve got to hand. Survive this showdown or we’ll all be as extinct as the gros michel!

These long-lived cuties used to be so rare that only one captive example was recorded in a thousand years. The ancient world beheld it with awe and greeted it with “awww!” Fearing its extinction, our ancestors yearned to hear the creature’s incredible mating call, produced by contracting a methane sac within its majestic horn. That was then. This is now, a few years after the second Uniconiglio was caught. Now they outnumber us five to one. Now their methane wilts our crops. Now their horny song plays eternal and it sounds like cats on fire. Now extinction seems like a good idea and we no longer care if it’s us or them.

Not even bestiary writers are spared the cruelty of Clan Bloodmoon. They know we’re all going to say this thing paid an arm and a leg for immortality, and they know full well we’ll hate ourselves for it. These hack writers’ nightmares are personally created by Calogero Bloodmoon, and by that I mean he pulls the limbs off zombies for fun.

Deceitful sisters of misfortune who appear in places where magic gathers. It is written on tablets of expensive card stock that one sister rules the East and the other the West, feared by all in between as the Witches of the Coast.

The damned result of a Werewolf mating with a Hyenaguy. Much like the extinct “true” hyena, Werehyenas communicate via high-pitched vocal sounds resembling laughter. Tragically, they’re almost always “laughing” in abject pain due to the effects of selective werebreeding on their bone structure.

An arrogant beast, the Nagaphonata considers itself the height of taste, dismissing all others as gauche or tacky. This, coming from a snake that decorates its lair with an all-chintz aesthetic!

The good news is the Frittoni doesn’t cook you slow like its smaller cousin so you’ll be flash fried in one painless second. The bad news is it extracts your soul first, and that thing burns for at least a couple of eternities. Did you know the average human soul has five times the nerve endings of the human body? Yeah, don’t piss a Frittoni off.

When you combine the malevolence of a corrupted ancient spirit with the honest loyalty of a humble dog, you get a creature with severe internal conflict. Evil conjurers have long wanted to fix the problem by using a corrupted dog, but there are only ever good ones.

It’s hard to know where to start with some monsters. Are we going to point out the snake for a tail first, or save it until we get past the aerodynamically impossible elephant in the room? Actually, an elephant is better designed for flight than a bird made out of rocks, yet here we are with an avian mineral that eats children because every possible god hates us.

Originally thought to be a woman with a snake for legs, the Shyamalanno is in fact a snake with a lady for a front… but not for a head. That’s what the front of a snake usually is, isn’t it? Just, like, its head? I’ve never thought about the front of a snake before today, and now I hate cognitive function.

Among beasts borne of the Blood Moon, the In’kuyata is most majestic, crowned by its contemporaries as the New King of the Skies. The previous King of the Skies, Keith, promptly abdicated in the braying face of a gigantic winged bull and was royally gored to kibble by his successor. The Dairy Plant’s reptilian rulers have placed an excessively high bounty on the creature, presuming it may lay eggs made of milk. Or milk made of eggs. Either way, they want them juicy sky drippin’s!

The monster with the gnarliest radical color scheme! It looks like it should transform or something, or maybe you could open it up to find it’s secretly an adventure playset. In reality, it enjoys slow roasting charity workers at the perfect temperature to maximally prolong their suffering. Also it sees the world in monochrome.

He is Gianni, fourth of his name, son of Giovanni, fifteenth of his name, grandson of Gianni, third of his name, and father of Giovanni, sixteenth of his name. The Giovanni family places lineage above all, and Gianni Giovanni the Fourth plans to be the first 322nd-generation Giovanni to marry into the Bloodmoon Clan. The fact they all quite publicly despise him hasn’t put him off.

He is Giovanni, sixteenth of his name, son of Gianni, fourth of his name, grandson of Giovanni, fifteenth of his name, and father of Lil’ Rhubarb. The Giovanni family places lineage above all, and Giovanni Giovanni the Sixteenth is just kind of over it. He plans to move to the beach, where he’ll play keyboards in a local band who’re cool with not making it big so long as they can keep just makin’ music.

A winged lion with the everything of a snake. They don’t hate humans, but they hate not torturing humans in a hateful manner. So turns the slightly convoluted cycle of hate.

The lesser frozen lake snail is capable of astral projection, albeit to such a limited degree that naked human senses can’t perceive it. When enough snails gather in one place, however, they form a hive consciousness capable of manifesting fully corporeal icy shades. That’s entirely made up. Still more believable than ghosts.

A being made of particularly dusty dust, it is the ancient enemy of the twin deities Shaik and Vack. So goes one myth. Another says they come from the future, their dust being the ashes of those whose death they’ve come to show. Actually, that’s a really good idea, I should be saving it for a sci-fi novella. Dustlords of Tomorrow: Book One of the Dusts of Future Dust Trilogy, available wherever books aren’t yet being burned for fuel.

A shapeless mass of Red Moon disciples, Congregation was born from a ritual gone wrong. Thirteen bodies were welded together, but only seven of the original souls remained conscious, tormented by perpetual, excruciating pain. The remaining six allegedly got lucky: they died during the ritual. The truth, unfortunately, is that the dead ones occasionally come back to life, just long enough to relive the horror of their physical form and feel its deadly, relentless pain. They bring with them terrifying memories from the hells their souls have passed through. Before dying again, they share those hellish visions with the rest, leaving the living souls in anguish and desperation, knowing that not even death will end their suffering.

Ashtart was already deep in her grey years when she became one of the followers of Baal’Thasar. In fact, she was among the first. She lived in fear that, on the day she died, she would have to face the judgement of some merciless god for the unspeakable sins she had committed in life. Her desperation to avoid the inevitable led her to become the first to experiment with human sacrifices, twisted rituals, and all sorts of abhorrent practices, all at the expense of the lesser disciples of the Order of the Red Moon. She would consume their flesh, wear their skin, graft their organs into herself. With every abominable act, she lost another piece of herself, and plunged her soul deeper into the depths of damnation. As her grotesque figure wandered apathically through the halls of Red Moon Manor, her dead cold eyes forever searching for the next victim of some vile experiment, a group of terrified disciples of the Order decided to put her at the centre of one instead. It did not move. It did not even scream. The soulless abomination that Ashtart had become simply kept throwing its dagger-like stare around, searching for the next piece of flesh to consume, while its body burned in bright flames and sharp swords plunged again and again into its abhorrent mass of organs. The relief of the disciples did not last long. The charred bones of Ashtart rose from a pile of cinders, and, somehow, even without her eyes, the disciples could feel her feral gaze picking them, one by one. No matter how deeply her remains are buried, how thoroughly her bones are shattered, or how many exorcisms are cast upon her, Ashtart’s corrupted will always comes back, clutching at anything it can control. An unstoppable force. Dark and hollow. Mindless and soulless. An evil presence with the singular goal of preying on life.

A scholar king of a long-lost empire, Sargon’s ambition could never be satiated. He could look out from the highest tower of his palace and know that every land his gaze touched belonged to him, yet still it was not enough. During the first Blood Moon, a new and twisted idea crept into his mind: if he could see the stars, then he should also own them. His obsession with conquering the impossible dragged him further and further away from his duties as king, and so his people began to mock him as the “king of the universe”. He turned to the teachings of Baal’Thasar of the Red Moon, for eternal life was surely his right. At night, he would stare into the darkest spots in the sky. He claimed the universe whispered to him in those moments, revealing secrets and knowledge no human could ever attain alone. With every secret learned, Sargon lost another piece of his humanity. At last, he found himself trapped in a hellish dimension: an infinite universe of his own. A universe devoid of any other life. A universe so miserable that all of its stars blaze at their brightest, consuming themselves in haste, unable to bear the anguish of bringing light to a forever lifeless void. Now Sargon desperately tries to escape his prison. He blinks back into our world without control, only for the fabric of his universe to pull him away again. Cold stars shimmer through his fleeting form: a warning to look away. Stare too long into Sargon’s void, and you too might find yourself seduced and trapped in an infinite universe of your own.

A rare philosopher with a gentle belief in the goodness of life, Baal’Thasar was also a healer and preacher who wanted to help and uplift the people around him. And then came the first Blood Moon. When asked what he saw during the event, Baal’Thasar’s words would turn to riddles and fanatical ramblings, strange for someone once so eloquent. People said the event had driven him mad, as he began to subtly steer his teachings toward talks of eternal life and infinite riches, culminating in the founding of the Order of the Red Moon. The truth is that the first Blood Moon blessed Baal’Thasar with a perilous gift. New eyes. Eyes that allowed him to see the duplicity, the avarice, and the selfish hunger of the people who came to him for comfort and cure. Eyes that allowed him to see life from the shallow, self-centred point of view of the desperate souls around him. As he found himself surrounded by those dark, coiling threads of cupidity, Baal’Thasar ultimately lost sight of his own guiding light. He grasped the venomous tethers with both hands, let them bind him, let all of his being become a channel for the insatiable want that he saw in the world. Maybe he started with good intentions. Maybe he thought he could unravel the serpentine threads, eradicate them, shine his own light upon them. But his light was quickly eclipsed, and the only thing Baal’Thasar discovered was that there is no origin and no terminus to greed. It is an insatiable, seductive beast that eats everything and serves only itself.